Gone Lawn 67 : Madison Freiberg

She arrives like the ballerina we are all training to be, her footsteps almost silent crossing the sprung wooden floors, keeping in time with the swishing of her tea-length coat. The noise draws our feet into first position. Our eyes remain on the opposite wall. Always the last to enter the studio, remnants of a perfume equal parts spice and citrus float towards us as her white fur is shaken, hung in the cupboard with the rosin dusted stereo. A long time ago, she lived in New York, the fluffy wool remains out of place in this mild winter. There is a crackle as the speakers come to life, turning towards the mirror, she tightens a gray sweater wrap around her waist.

We stand, white knuckled at the barre that hundreds of small sweaty hands have rendered smooth. The beginnings of a Tchaikovsky symphony are marked with the soft brushstrokes of our pink leather-clad feet. Floating down our line of ten, wrists are adjusted — pink palms dotted with condensation turned upwards towards the ceiling. Her voice is rough, like the sandpaper laying around my dad’s garage, but she is always smiling. She spoke to us in the same way she did with the janitor, the tumbling coach, and the gymnastics teacher. Treating us like we were adults, conversing as if we were equals.

“If I placed a tray of pastries on your hands, you should be able to hold it still. No shaking.” Our shoulders came next, scrutinized by a wooden fan dragged across dips of sharp bone, up towards newly pierced throbbing ears. She would alternate between fanning herself in the airless studio and lingering inches away from our polyester-clad bodies. “Relax, do not bite your lips in concentration.” Her breath acrid, similar to chemicals marked DANGER in the science labs, I had not smelled it on a person before. It should have been sweeter; she was always rolling candy around in her mouth throughout class. Adults were full of opposites.

During classes her purse sat in a puddle between the red plush tumbling mats and snow-white tutus for our Swan Lake number. When we needed an extra bobby pin or hair tie we were pointed towards the worn black leather bag. Today, her endless supply of hair accessories had seemed to run out. Dumping the contents onto the floor, a treasure trove of sugar spilled out; Extra gum in Winter Ice and Pink Bubble, Dum Dum’s, lemon-lime Tic-Tacs, and fun-size Heath bars.

I did not recognize a crisp white box, sealed in plastic wrap. Untouched. Virginia Slims gave the faintest rolling noise as I turned them in my fingers. There was no picture advertising chocolate, caramel, or cowboys on the small square package. Just a black and white warning label, like the cleaning products my mom kept under the sink.

Despite my jacket and tightly cinched sweatpants, the autumn air settled into my legs, she always reminded us to bundle up when leaving the studio or else, “You’ll ruin your muscles!” The metal door clanged before she appeared beside me. Her animal coat brushed against my side. Unwrapping the box with care, she popped out a solitary cylinder. “Can I have a piece of candy?” She tossed me a piece of saltwater taffy that had evaded my gaze earlier. In tandem we prepared our separate treats, her with a lighter and me with my fingertips.

“Do those taste good?” I avoided candy cigarettes at parades, parties, and easter egg hunts. I had never seen a box like hers though. Letting out a puff of air she tucked a piece of straight black hair behind her ear. “No, but it’s soothing compared to that.” Raising her eyebrows at the squishing noises I was making. “My real candy.” Headlights bounced into the empty parking lot; I spent the better part of a year wondering why adults ate candy that wasn’t sweet.

Madison Freiberg is an American writer located in North Carolina. Her flash fiction has appeared in The Reprise. She is currently working on her debut novel and attending workshops through her local literary society. Website: here.